There was something against his cheek.
That was the first thought that Doyle had -- cheek, hard surface. The
second was that the same hard surface was also pressing against his
jawbone, his collarbone, his hip, his thigh... the discomfort crept
up on him gradually, not unlike waking up with a hangover. Which come
to think of it, he wasn't.
He opened his eyes.
He was... okay, he didn't know where he was. Someone's kitchen, on
the floor, which was the hard surface making him uncomfortable. He pushed
himself upright and sat back on his knees, trembling slightly. He didn't
have the headache, but the shaking feeling was reminiscent of the dehydration
that usually followed a night on the bottle. What had he...
*Oh.*
Everything came flooding back. He'd hit Angel -- knocked him right off
that platform down into the hold of the ship. He'd kissed Cordelia -- and
how he could have forgotten that, even for a moment, was something he
wasn't sure about. And then he'd... died.
Doyle shuffled the memories over in his mind like a deck of cards,
and then lay them out again only to find that he was still holding the
same hand. Yup. He'd died. There was no way he could have survived the
Beacon, and if he had, by some miracle, he would have been scarred and
in the hospital with three quarters of his flesh burnt off. He might
not remember the actual moment of dying, but his brain still worked
well enough to know that he had. So the question remaining was -- how had
he gotten here?
And where *was* here?
Before he could lever himself up off the floor and try to find out,
he heard the sound of a door, not too far away, opening. A bustle, as
someone put something down and closed the door, the click of a dead
bolt shooting home. The person started walking in what sounded like
Doyle's direction, and he had just enough time to think that whoever
it was was going to be more surprised to find him in their kitchen than
he was to be there, probably. Then a man came around the corner and
caught sight of him, and froze.
They sized each other up slowly. The guy was tall but not large -- slight
of build, rather than heavily muscled. He wore glasses and looked bookish
but also, somehow, less surprised to find Doyle there than he'd expected.
The man took a tentative step closer, narrowing his eyes, and Doyle
shifted back in response.
"It's all right," the man said with a British accent, and
spread his hands to show that he was unarmed.
"Easy for you to say," Doyle responded, his voice hoarse.
He moved back a few more inches, one hand resting on the floor to support
himself. "And not to sound like a B-movie, but where the hell am
I?"
The man's gaze fell to the floor in front of Doyle, and when he glanced
down himself he saw some sooty-looking marks there, marks that he'd
disturbed with his movements. "Of course!" the guy said, almost
to himself. "How could I have been so stupid? No *wonder* it didn't
work."
"Uh huh." Doyle stood up shakily and leaned on the back of
the nearest chair, feeling less steady but also less vulnerable, up
off the floor. "What didn't work? And who are you?"
"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," the man said quickly, and started
to reach out as if offering to shake hands before obviously thinking
better of it and pulling back. "Alan Francis Doyle. You are, aren't
you?"
He nodded. "That'd be me, yeah."
"I work with Angel. And Cordelia."
Doyle shook his head. He wasn't sure if he was trying to clear it,
or disagreeing with the guy, or what.
"I assure you I do. I can... wait a moment, I can prove it to
you." Wesley turned and headed away from the kitchen, and Doyle
took a few steps in the same direction and then leaned on the wall as
Wesley rummaged around in a desk. After a moment he found what he'd
seemingly been looking for -- a small stack of photos. He rifled through
them quickly, and then turned back toward Doyle. "Here," he
said, and held a single photo out.
Doyle reached out and took it, hesitantly, and turned it around. He
looked at it for a long moment, and then glanced up at Wesley to compare
the man in the picture to the one standing before him. Then his gaze
returned to the photo, his attention on the other two people in it.
"Where are they?"
"I'd imagine they're both home by now. Earlier tonight we tried
to do a spell... well, *I* tried to do a spell... to bring you back.
It seemed that it hadn't worked. But then I arrive home and, remarkably,
here you are." Wesley looked at Doyle critically. "Would you
like to sit down? Can I get you a drink?"
"Sittin' might not be a bad idea," Doyle admitted.
"Here, then." Wesley indicated a nearby sofa. "Get off
of your feet and I'll just fetch a glass of water." He went back
into the kitchen and Doyle could hear him opening the refrigerator.
"How long?" he asked, when Wesley came back in and handed
him a glass of water. He took a sip gratefully, the cool water easing
the dryness of his throat.
"A little over two years," Wesley said slowly.
Doyle blinked as two years vanished in the time it took for the words
to be spoken. "Two... years," he repeated, stunned. "Two
years. It feels like yesterday."
"Do you remember what happened? Or anything in between?"
"Remember dying," Doyle said. "Not the kind of thing
you forget, I can tell you that much. But nothing since." He stared
at the surface of the water, then glanced up. "Nothing."
Wesley was looking at him with compassion. "I'm sorry, it must
be a terrible shock. Is there anything I can do?"
He blinked again. "I wouldn't mind talking to them."
"Of course." Wesley looked as if he thought he should have
expected the request. "Of course, how stupid of me. I'll phone
them at once. They'll want to come see you, I'm sure. Just let me -- "
He went over and picked up the phone, and then looked back at Doyle.
"I'll be right back," he said, and took the phone through
the room and into another one beyond it.
Doyle sat on the couch and turned the photo around in his hand again.
Angel and Cordelia with this guy -- Wesley. Two years gone. His life gone.
And now back. It was a lot to get your mind around.
He could hear Wesley clearly enough as he started to talk into the
phone. "Angel? It's Wesley. I don't know how to say this gently
so I'm just going to come out with it. He's here... Doyle's here. Well,
I'm not quite sure. My best guess is that the practice circle that I
drew here this afternoon has something to do with... yes, I realize
that. No, I didn't know it was going to... obviously. He's doing quite
well, under the circumstances. Yes, I think that would be... Angel,
he might like to..."
And then, as if to himself, "Lord save us from impatient vampires."
More silence.
"Cordelia, are you home? Oh, I see. Well, you might want to ask
the driver to turn around in head in the direction of my flat, then.
The spell... it seems that it *did* work. He's here. Doyle's here, in
my apartment. Yes of *course* I'm sure it's him, Cordelia. Well, because
he told me so, for one. I've already spoken to Angel and he's on his
way here... yes... And he'd like to speak with you, I believe. Yes,
hold on." Wesley came back into the room and held the phone out
to Doyle. "It's Cordelia," he said unnecessarily.
"Thanks." Doyle took the phone and then a deep breath, and
held it to his ear. "Cordy? It's me."
And Christ if she didn't sound just like he remembered her. "Doyle?
Is it *really* you? How do I know you're not some weird impostor or
something?"
He chuckled. "I dunno, Princess. Ask me anything."
"Okay." She paused and then said, "What was on your
special coffee mug at the office?"
That was a stumper. "I don't remember?" he said finally.
"I don't even remember *having* a mug."
Cordelia squealed. "It really *is* you. I can't believe it. Listen,
I'm on my way there now. I'll be there in... six minutes, tops. Don't
go anywhere."
Considering how shaky his legs had been earlier, Doyle didn't think
that was going to be an issue. "I won't. I'll be here."
"Okay. Bye." The dial tone sounded as she hung up the other
end of the line, and Doyle shut the phone off and handed it back to
Wesley. "She's on her way."
"Good. Good." Wesley put the phone back on its base and came
over and looked at him.
He couldn't even begin to guess why he was so tired when obviously
he'd been doing *nothing* for the past two years. "Am I that interesting?"
he asked Wesley after another minute.
"I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time believing that you're actually
here."
Doyle grinned. "Yeah, tell me about it. In fact, why don't ya
tell me everything? You know, fill me in on what's been going on since
I... died."
"All right." Wesley's brow furrowed. "Well, the office
that Angel -- that you all shared was destroyed in an explosion. That was
some time after I arrived in L.A., which was just after your death."
"Can't say I'm too sorry I wasn't around for the explosion. Doesn't
sound like a barrel of laughs." His brain was still struggling
to catch up, but at least his mouth didn't seem to need a lot of input
to work.
"No, I can assure you that it wasn't."
Something in Wesley's tone made him ask, "You were there?"
Wesley shifted his weight to his other foot. "Unfortunately, yes.
But I was rather lucky -- Angel arrived in the nick of time, as they say,
and I wasn't seriously injured. Cordelia got the worst of that episode,
I'm afraid."
"What?" That made him sit up and take notice. "Cordy
was there too?"
"No, no, she was in hospital already at that point because of
the..." Wesley paused, his expression wary. "...visions,"
he said finally.
The world spun down to a narrow tunnel as what Wesley'd said sunk in.
"Because of the visions," he repeated. Wesley's glasses were
metal-framed, and a shape somewhere between oval and rectangle. Wesley's
lips were thin and his hair was mussed like it was too long and he wasn't
sure what to do with it. It was easier for Doyle to let his eyes focus
on Wesley's face than to let his brain focus on what it was screaming
to deny. "Cordy's got..."
And maybe he wasn't focusing as well as he'd thought, even with his
eyes, because suddenly Wesley was crouched in front of him. "It's
all right. Take some deep breaths, here."
The glass was removed from his hand and a warm hand was touching his
shoulder. He thought rather wildly that this was the first time someone
had touched him since he'd died. The last touch had been Cordy's. Cordy...
"I did it, didn't I?" he asked, from his awkward, slightly
bent forward position.
"There. Don't forget to breathe. It's very important when you're
living." Wesley said. His hand squeezed gently. "I'm sorry,
it's a lot to take in all at once."
So the answer's 'yes,' then, Doyle thought. Christ.
And now Cordy was stuck with them. At least he'd done something to *deserve*
the visions. She'd just been unlucky. Like everyone around him was always
unlucky. "You shouldn't have brought me back," he said.
"I beg your... there are at least two people, both of them on
their way here at this very moment, who would disagree with you on that
matter. This wasn't an idle decision. A great deal of thought and preparation
went into this spell. They *need* you, Doyle. Cordelia needs you."
Doyle raised his head. "She needs me? Why, so she can finally
tell me off after two years, for giving her the damned visions in the
first place?"
Wesley shook his head and let go of Doyle's shoulder, the loss of touch
not something that went unnoticed. "Of course not. But I should
let her tell you herself. In fact, when it comes right down to it, none
of this is my business, really."
At that moment, if he'd had more strength, he would have gotten up
and walked out of there. But no, on second thought, he deserved whatever
it was Cordelia wanted to throw at him, and more. "None of your
business? But you work with them. Aren't you..."
"Friends?" Wesley asked, finishing the question for him.
"Yes, we are. But this is about you, not me. I should think that --
" He broke off as there was a sharp knock at what Doyle assumed
was the front door and stood up, heading in that direction.
When Wesley opened the door, Cordelia burst in, dropping her bag on
the floor and looking around. "Where is he?" she asked, and
then her eyes met his and she smiled, her whole face lighting up. Her
hair was shorter, and blonder, and she looked... older. Doyle wasn't
sure if two years should have aged her this much, and he felt a sharp
pang of guilt like a lance as he realized that no, it was probably the
visions that had done that.
"Doyle," she said, and headed straight for him. At the end
of the couch she hesitated. "Hi."
He couldn't take his eyes off her. She was still amazingly beautiful;
the fine lines on her face that accompanied her gentle smile only made
her more so. "Hey," he said. "How are ya?"
"Kind of stunned," Cordelia admitted. "I was all ready
for you to come back, if it worked. Then it didn't work -- or at least,
we thought it didn't work -- and, but, here you are. I don't think it's
really sunk in yet."
"Yeah, for me, either." Doyle was aware of Wesley still standing
near the door, like he was trying to give them some space, but he couldn't
spare the energy to tell the guy to relax. Instead he gestured at the
cushion beside him. "You gonna sit down?"
Cordelia sank down onto the couch and reached for his hand. Hers wasn't
particularly warm, but her touch went a long way in reassuring him that
this *was* real. "You're really back," she said wonderingly.
"I can't believe it worked."
"No one's as surprised as me, Princess, believe me." For
a brief moment the desire to run his hands through her hair, to kiss
her, to lose himself in her, was very strong. He shoved it all down
and patted her hand with his free one instead. "You wanna chew
me out? I'm thinking you deserve to."
She looked confused. "What are you talking about? Doyle, we just
brought you back from the *dead.* Oh! Maybe the spell scrambled your
brain." She glanced at Wesley as if for confirmation.
Wesley came closer, slowly. "I believe he's talking about the
visions."
"Oh, right. He didn't know," Cordelia said, nodding, and
then her lips thinned. "And you *told* him. Boy, Wes, way to make
the recently-dead guy feel welcome."
For some reason Doyle felt the need to protest this. "He didn't...
I think it was an accident. I was asking questions and it just kind
of... came up."
"'Just kind of came up?'" Cordelia repeated. "Like,
oh, it's the end of September, and the weather's been really nice, and
by the way, did you realize you gave Cordelia the visions when you kissed
her?" It was obviously Wesley that she was annoyed with.
Doyle tightened his hold on her hand. "Cordelia. That's not how
it happened, and anyway, don't you think it's a good thing I know?"
She looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. "Yeah. You're
right. I just didn't want you to find out like that. If you didn't know."
"*If* I didn't know?"
"Well not like I could *ask* you whether you did it on purpose."
"If I..." He felt the world start to narrow again and determinedly
took a slow deep breath, drawing the air as far into his lungs as he
could and holding it there. "You thought I gave you the visions
on purpose?"
"I didn't *know,*" Cordelia said. "I mean, Angel needed
them. *Someone* had to have them, right? You pretty much had two options
from where I was standing -- and actually, really only one, because I was
the only one standing there after you knocked Angel down off that platform."
Doyle did take her face between his hands then, and he looked into
her eyes and spoke carefully, trying to let her know how completely
serious he was. "Princess, I didn't have a clue. I'd never have
done that to you on purpose. *Never.* Christ, if I could take them back
I'd do it in a second."
"Well actually..." she said, a little bit shakily, and then
there was a hard rap at the door.
Angel's voice. "Wesley, it's me."
Wesley opened the door and Angel burst in. "Where is he?"
he asked, and Doyle couldn't help but smile because it was the same
thing Cordelia had said.
He found himself on his feet, moving around Cordelia and toward Angel
as if there was no choice in the matter.
"You're here," Angel said, and came and grabbed onto him,
his hands firm on Doyle's upper arms, holding him up, holding him *there.*
"You're really here."
"You two been working on a script?" Doyle asked, aiming for
a joking tone. "Guess there's some kinda protocol for when people
return from the dead, yeah?"
"Not so much, actually." Cordelia had stood up and followed
him, and now she was standing so close that he could feel the fabric
of her shirt brushing against the fabric of his. The closeness of the
two of them, one on either side, warmed him. "You're just lucky
we know how to roll with the punches." -- "The good fight,
yeah? -- You never know until you've been tested -- I get that now."
Her hand brushed over his shoulder, the same spot Wesley had touched
earlier.
"He's really here," Angel said to Wesley. "You did it."
Wesley ducked his head slightly. "No, we all did it. I may have
performed the spell, but you and Cordelia were both instrumental in
its success, not to mention Gunn and Fred's -- "
"Geez, Wesley, would it kill you to take a compliment for once?"
Cordelia's tone of voice was as familiar to Doyle as his own, and the
sound of it threatened to bring tears to his eyes.
Angel's hand came up and cupped the side of his face, briefly. "Maybe
you should sit back down," he said.
The three of them moved back to the couch and Angel pushed him down
onto the cushions. Cordelia sat next to him and took his hand again
immediately; Doyle wasn't sure if it was because she wanted to, or because
she could tell that he needed the comfort. Suddenly it was so much *more*
than he needed that he was overwhelmed; he clutched at her hand and
glanced up at Angel, trying to still the trembling that had started
somewhere inside his chest and was spreading outward.
"Hey," Angel said, and sat down next to him, patting his
shoulder awkwardly. "Take it easy. It's a big shock, coming back --
I know. But it'll be okay."
Cordelia soothed him with gentle touches, her fingertips running over
the back of his hand. Doyle blinked furiously, stubbornly fighting back
the tears, and his gaze fell on a pile of books across the room. They
were haphazardly piled, slips of paper sticking out of several of them.
A pen was balanced on top of the pile. It was all too normal. Too real.
He leaned forward and hid his face in his hands as the trembling took
over.
A hand was rubbing his back -- he could tell it was Cordy's because it
was warm, and Angel was still patting his shoulder. In his head Doyle
could clearly picture the expression on the vampire's face -- that mixture
of concern and 'what the fuck am I supposed to be doing here, exactly?'
that he wore so well and with so much practice. The thought amused Doyle
and his trembling eased off.
"It's okay," Cordelia was saying gently, her hand moving
in steady circles.
"M'all right," he said. "Just gimme a minute here."
"However much time you need," Angel said, giving his shoulder
a final pat. "No hurry."
Doyle concentrated on breathing as he blinked and stared at the slightly
worn fabric of his pants. Which were, strangely, the same ones he'd
been wearing when he died. Not strange *because* they'd been the ones
he was wearing when he died, but because he remembered them so clearly.
Even though there was a great big nothing between the last moment he
could recall and the waking up in Wesley's kitchen -- and *boy* was that
nothing big -- his memory of those last few hours of his life were almost
as clear as if they'd just happened. He was grateful he couldn't remember
the pain, at least.
"Sorry," he said finally, lifting his head and meeting Angel's
eyes. "It's all, you know, kinda overwhelming."
"Yeah." Angel's eyes were soft and dark with concern.
Cordelia smoothed his hair back. "It's okay," she repeated.
"It's gonna be fine. I -- " She shook her head suddenly and stood
up, disappearing further into the apartment. He heard the sound of a
door opening and then closing.
"Princess?" Confused, Doyle looked to Angel and Wes for clarification.
"Is she -- did I do something?"
"Not at all," Wesley answered smoothly. "I'm sure she's
fine. Why don't I just go see if she needs anything, and give you two
a moment to talk?" His eyes spoke something to Angel before he
followed after Cordelia.
Trying not to listen to the gentle knocking and then the low voices
that were soon muffled by a door, Doyle asked, "What's goin' on,
Angel? Just tell me."
"It's not easy on her. Last time she saw you -- well, you know,"
Angel said awkwardly. "Give her a little time to get used to the
idea of you being back."
"Give *myself* a little time," he said, shaking his head.
"Do you remember anything?"
Funny how everyone kept asking him the same questions. He wondered
how long that would go on for. "Not really. One minute I knew I
was dead, the next I was waking up in Wesley's kitchen. Nothing in between."
"You feel okay? Should we have a doctor check you out?"
Doyle shrugged. "I'm okay. Feel like I could sleep for a couple
of days, maybe, but otherwise all right."
There was a noise from the hallway and he looked around to see Cordelia
and Wesley returning. Cordelia had an expression on her face that he
remembered well -- stubbornness mixed with pride, her chin set with determination
and a glint in her eyes that dared him to speak of her sudden disappearance.
Well, no one had ever claimed he was smart. "You okay, Princess?"
"I'm fine."
She didn't look fine -- she looked exhausted. "Maybe you should go
home and get some rest," Doyle suggested. "S'been a long day.
Angel can fill me in on what's been going on and -- you and me, we can
talk tomorrow, yeah?"
Cordelia nodded slowly. "Where're you going to stay?" she
asked him, as if she expected him to have an answer.
"I kinda figured the hotel," Angel said. "Plenty of
room."
"Or you're more than welcome to stay here," Wesley offered.
"The sofa converts into a bed, and it's quite late..." He
checked his watch. "It's after midnight."
The thought of being able to lie down and close his eyes and just drift
away was so enticing that it swept over him like a wave, leaving Doyle
feeling wrung out and heavy-limbed. "Could probably sleep,"
he admitted.
Angel patted his shoulder. "Then how 'bout you do that. We can
all talk tomorrow. Now that you're here, there's no hurry."
He wasn't so tired that he missed the glance that Angel and Wesley
exchanged, but he was tired enough to let it go without comment. "You
sure you don't mind me crashing here? Because I can go with Angel. Just --
"
"No, of course not," Wesley said, to his relief. "Let
me get some blankets and things."
Not that the idea of staying here wasn't a little bit, well, strange.
He didn't know Wesley -- although oddly his apartment felt familiar already --
and on the one hand, going wherever Angel went seemed like the thing
to do. But he was so tired that the thought of leaving this spot was
almost more than he could handle.
Cordelia was looking at him with a whole range of expressions mixed
up on her face: uncertainty, wonder, and something that he liked to
think might be happiness. He stood up and moved toward her hesitantly.
"You sure you're okay?"
She nodded again, her eyes searching his. "Yeah. You?"
"Yeah." He wanted to touch her something fierce. "Can
I -- ?" He made a little gesture with his hand and she must have understood
because she stepped forward into his arms almost immediately, her chin
nestled against his shoulder like they were meant to fit together. "Maybe
Angel'll take you home," he said into her hair. "Make sure
you get there safe."
He looked at Angel, who said, "Sure I will."
Doyle would have been happy to stand there all night, just holding
Cordelia, but after another moment he forced himself to release her
and step back a little. His hand brushed over her cheek lightly. "Get
some rest, Princess. I'll see you in the morning."
"Okay." She backed toward the door like she wasn't sure she
wanted to take her eyes off of him.
Angel said, "'Night," somewhat reluctantly as Wesley came
back into the room with a pillow and an armful of sheets and blankets.
"Shall we ring you in the morning?" Wesley asked. "Or
just come in to the office at the usual time?"
"Come in late," Angel suggested. "You know, take your
time. Whenever."
"All right, then. Good night." Wesley went over and dead-bolted
the door behind them as they left, and then came back over and bent
as if to take the cushions off the couch.
"You don't need to do that," Doyle said, stopping him. "I'm
tired enough I'm not gonna notice where I sleep. I'll just sack out
here on the couch, like it is."
Wesley nodded and straightened back up, separating out the blankets
and pillow from the sheets, which he set down over on the chair across
the room.
Doyle sat down and started to untie his shoes, struggling with the
knotted laces. He could remember having tied them that morning -- which
granted was two years ago -- with fingers that had been clumsy with the
night before's drink. He'd done a little *too* good a job. "Ya
think they have classes in this kind of thing?"
"Untying shoes?"
He glanced up. "No. Getting back into the swing of things, after
coming back from the dead. Though on second thought, s'probably more
likely that they have classes on untying shoes." He finally managed
to get the second one undone, and toed them off, setting them neatly
next to the couch. "Thanks," he said. "For letting me
stay the night. And, you know, the whole spell thing."
"Er... you're welcome." Wesley looked uncomfortable, like
he was about as used to accepting thanks as Doyle was to giving it.
He gestured at the pillow and blankets. "Is there anything else
you might need?"
"No - I think a few hours sleep will set me right. Though I s'pose
that might just be wishful thinking." Doyle yawned hugely and shoved
the pillow down under his elbow.
Wesley took a step toward the hallway. "All right, then. I'm going
to go to bed, myself. If you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me."
Right, Doyle thought, but he nodded anyway. "Yeah.
G'night, then."
"Good night."
He'd thought he'd find the quiet peaceful, that he'd have some time
to just lie there and think and sort of take everything in. But as it
turned out, he closed his eyes for a second, tried to force them back
open, and then he was falling into sleep. He had just enough presence
of mind left to be afraid that he might not wake up again -- that this
was some weird kind of death-dream, like your life flashing before your
eyes -- before everything went dark and still.
* * * * *
Doyle woke gradually, over a period of time that was probably a lot
longer than it seemed. First there was a distant sound that seemed familiar --
water running, like rain, only harder. Then more darkness, floating,
sleep so heavy that his limbs seemed to be sinking into the surface
beneath him. Later, more sounds -- closer, but less regular -- small clinks
and clanks, and then gradually the smell of food cooking. From his fog,
he heard as well as felt his stomach rumble in response.
He opened his eyes slowly, and even more slowly his brain told him
where he was. Wesley's apartment. He'd been dead, and now he was alive.
Not to mention hungry.
Sitting up, Doyle knuckled the sleep from his eyes and yawned hugely,
then startled as Wesley poked his head around from the kitchen.
"You're up," Wesley said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Must have," Doyle agreed. "Don't remember anything
after you left." Now that he thought about it, the idea of Wesley
walking through the room while he was asleep was a little weird. His
stomach growled again.
"Are you hungry at all?" Wesley asked. "I thought you
might be, since you didn't have anything last night, and, well, obviously
it's been some time since you've eaten. But if you're not, that's -- "
Doyle threw the blanket off of his legs and sat up, interrupting the
flow of words. "I'm starved, and it smells fantastic. Where do
I sign up?"
"This way," Wesley said, and Doyle followed him into the
kitchen, noting that the marks on the floor had been wiped away. "Here,
sit down. Coffee?"
"That'd be great -- thanks." His stomach growled again as Wesley
set a mug down in front of him and he grinned, embarrassed. "I
think my body might think it really has been two years since my last
meal." A plate loaded with a cooked breakfast was set down next
to the mug -- eggs, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms. "Man. You really
treat yourself right."
Wesley put a somewhat-less-full plate down on the other side of the
table and sat opposite him. "Actually, there's a grocer just down
the street that delivers. I called them earlier and had them bring some
things by."
"What time is it?" Doyle asked, just before cramming a huge
mouthful of food into his mouth.
"Just a little after ten," Wesley said. "I spoke with
Cordelia at about nine and we agreed that it was best to let you sleep
in, if you were able to. Get your energy back."
Doyle nodded and swallowed. "You could have gotten me up earlier."
"It wasn't necessary. Cordelia's gone to get you some clothes
and things this morning, and we'll meet her at the office after you've
had a chance to shower, or... anything else you need to take care of."
He cut a sausage in half and stabbed it with his fork. "Yeah,
clothes. Hadn't thought of that. Guess I'm lucky I came back wearing
anything at all, huh?"
Wesley looked down at his plate, and Doyle thought there just might
have been the faintest pink tinge to the Brit's cheeks that hadn't been
there before. "You might have been... cold," he said delicately.
"Although you certainly could have borrowed some of my things in
the interim. Our differing heights notwithstanding."
"Thanks. I mean... for everything. You really didn't have to go
to all this trouble for someone you don't even know."
"I almost feel as if I know you," Wesley explained. "I've
heard a great deal about you -- most of it in the past few days, of course,
but also before that. When I arrived in L.A., it was your shoes I had
to fill."
"Must have been uncomfortable," Doyle said, trying to joke
because for some reason he felt uncomfortable with the idea. "What
with my feet being smaller than yours, and all."
"It was... exceedingly difficult." Wesley spoke the words
as if they were hard to admit to. "You'd just died -- gone out a hero
in a blaze of glory, as it were -- and I, well... let's just say that I
received less than a warm welcome. After Cordelia kissed me, at least."
Doyle just about spit his mouthful of coffee out onto the table. "Cordy
-- kissed you?"
Wesley nodded. "Yes -- but not like that, of course. She was under
the impression that you kissing her was what had passed the visions
on to her, and she was attempting to rid herself of them in the same
fashion."
Even so, Doyle wasn't sure he liked the idea of it.
"I believe she kissed Angel, as well," Wesley supplied helpfully.
"I think," Doyle said, slowly, "That this coming back
to life thing isn't gonna go quite as smoothly as I hoped it would."
Wesley was looking at him. "You have feelings for her," he
observed.
"Well, yeah, of course I do. I mean, have you *looked* at her?
And she's, you know... brave, and strong, and... well. She was pretty
much everything I was looking for -- and I hadn't even known I was looking."
"I understand." Wesley had an expression on his face that
led Doyle to believe that maybe he really *did* understand, and then
he realized why that might be.
"You have feelings for her, too," he said.
Wesley immediately straightened in his chair. "Not at all. That
is to say... I did once. As you say, she has... many admirable qualities
in a woman, and she's very attractive. But our relationship now is strictly
as friends. We're close -- at least, I like to think we are -- but there's
no romantic interest there. On either of our parts."
Doyle believed him, despite the quick way he'd jumped to protest. "Yeah.
Well, that's good to know." He ate another couple of bites of food
and sipped at his coffee, the two of them sitting quietly in companionable
silence for a few minutes. Finally, he pushed his chair back an inch
or so and nodded. "Suppose we'd better get ourselves on the road,
then, yeah?"
"Certainly."
They piled the dishes to soak in the sink -- Wesley insisted that he'd
do them later, that he preferred to go in to the office rather than
take the time with them -- and drove through L.A. to a huge, slightly crumbling
building that was, apparently, the new office of Angel Investigations.
New to Doyle, at any rate.
Cordelia was sitting on a couch in the lobby, her feet tucked up onto
the cushion and a book in her hand, although she looked for all the
world like someone who wasn't actually reading. When Doyle and Wesley
entered the hotel she glanced up, and then her face lit up with a relieved
smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She set the book down beside
her and got up.
"Hey," she said. "You made it. Way to make people not
worry."
Doyle was warmed by the idea that she'd be worried about him, until
he saw the look in her eyes. Then he felt nothing but guilt. "Sorry.
We didn't -- "
"No," Cordelia said, making a waving gesture with her hand.
"No, it's not you. I mean it *is* you, just... it's already been
one of those days, you know?"
"I thought you got to go shopping. Woulda thought that'd make
it a good day automatically."
Cordelia gave him a tense smile. "Yeah. The stuff I got you's
back in Wes' office. Do you want to -- oh." She stopped as a man Doyle
had never seen in his life emerged from a room behind her, his face
guarded.
"Doyle," Wesley said formally, "This is Charles Gunn.
He works with us. Gunn, this is Doyle."
Gunn, who was taller than Angel with shoulders that most men would
have envied, nodded at him. "Hey. How's it going?"
"Okay, I guess. I mean, other than the general sense of confusion
and lost time." Doyle wasn't sure what to make of this guy.
"Cool." Gunn glanced at Wesley and then said, "Right.
So, Wes, you want to help me with that thing?"
Wesley nodded and gestured vaguely off to his left. "We're just
going to go... take care of... something. But if you need anything,
don't hesitate to let us know."
Cordelia's expression was one of uncertainty and mild annoyance. "Subtle,
aren't they?" she asked, reaching out and taking Doyle's hand.
"Yeah," he said. "Suppose they could have held up a
big sign that said 'Just leaving the two of you alone now' though. That
woulda been more obvious."
"Well, come on, I want to show you what I bought you." She
towed him into a back room that was clearly an office -- desks, bookcases,
filing cabinets. "I had to do the best I could about the size,
but trust me, you're going to look *so* much better in these things
than in that awful stuff you used to wear."
"Hey! I liked that stuff." His protest was mild enough, and
he looked on obligingly as Cordelia held up pairs of slacks and shirts
for his approval.
"Only because you were crazy," Cordelia told him. "And
look, here's a jacket, and I would have got shoes but I *really* couldn't
guess at the size there, and..."
A calm voice interrupted her steady stream of words, and Doyle looked
up to see Angel standing in the doorway. "Cordy. You need to tell
him."
Doyle looked from Angel to Cordelia and then back to Angel again. "Tell
me what?"
When he turned his gaze to Cordelia again, she was looking at the leather
jacket she was holding in her hands. "Oh. Well, see..."
Doyle stepped closer and gently took the jacket from her, draping it
over the back of the chair she was standing next to. God, if Cordy was
avoiding telling him something -- Cordy, who was always so direct -- then
it had to be bad. "Something you need to share, Princess?"
She shook her head mutely, her eyes huge in her pale face.
"Cordelia, if you don't tell him, I will." Angel was still
calm as he came further into the room, but Doyle could tell that the
cool exterior was hiding something darker and more complex.
Cordy nodded then, and took a deep breath. "There's, um... well,
there's a reason we brought you back."
Doyle smiled encouragingly at her, keeping his tone light so that she'd
know it was okay. "What? Are you sayin' you didn't want me back
just because of my handsome face?"
"I'm... the visions are..." She threw a pleading look at
Angel. "I can't. You do it."
"Sit down," Angel told her, kindly, and she moved the bag
of clothes that was on the chair to the floor and did so. "You
too," he said, gesturing at Doyle. He waited until Doyle had perched
himself on the edge of the desk.
"Okay, I'm sitting. So what's the story?" Doyle crossed his
arms in what he hoped was a no-nonsense sort of pose.
"The story is, the visions were never meant for humans,"
Angel said. "And the Powers That Be weren't doing Cordy any favors
by letting her get them. She needs them out of her head, and fast."
Cordelia just sat there, waiting for Angel to continue.
"Or what?" Doyle asked, slowly.
"Or they're going to kill her." Angel met his gaze, the concern
in his eyes speaking to Doyle loud and clear.
He didn't even have time to think before he was up and out of his chair,
moving to kneel on the floor in front of Cordy, taking her hands in
his. "Don't worry, Princess. We're gonna take care of this. I'm
not going to let anything happen to you."
She smiled at him tremulously. "I know." God, she was so
pale. Doyle reached up to cup the side of her face gently and she closed
her eyes and leaned into his touch.
"So how do we do it?" Doyle asked Angel quietly, without
taking his eyes off of Cordelia. "Same way I gave them to her?"
"We don't know," Angel admitted. "Wes thinks that might
work, but we just... don't know."
"Well, no more waiting around." Doyle slid one hand back
around Cordelia's neck, pulling her down to meet him. The sense that
it really had been a long time that he'd been gone intensified as he
kissed her -- in his memory it had been such a short time since their
first kiss, but this still felt unfamiliar, like his body had forgotten
it. She tasted sweet, and when he pulled back the hope shining in her
eyes tore at his heart.
"What do you think?" Cordelia asked.
"I think... I think I don't know enough about it." Doyle
looked at her, and then up at Angel. "There some kind of spell
for this?"
"You mean to tell if it worked?" Angel shook his head. "I
don't think so."
Cordelia sighed and leaned in closer to Doyle again, resting her forehead
against his shoulder. "Should I be apologizing?" she asked.
"What for?"
"For not bringing you back until I needed something from you?
Or maybe for bringing you back at all? It's not like we asked you how
you felt about it."
"Not like you could," Doyle pointed out. "But no. No
apologies needed. Being back, it's... good. Great." He ran his
fingers through her hair again, soaking up the feel of her body pressed
against his own, and couldn't help but meet Angel's worried eyes over
her shoulder.
"You might not think so a few days from now, if this worked and
you've got the visions back," Cordelia said quietly. "I don't
remember you being too crazy about them."
"No, but they weren't going to kill me. I'll take one every day
for the rest of my life if it means you gettin' to *have* a rest of
your life." The thought of her dying, and because of something
he'd done, no matter how accidentally, was terrifying. He'd find a way
to take the visions back, if this hadn't worked. He leaned back and
took her face between his palms. "Hey, this is a hotel, right?
Why don't you go lie down for a while, get some rest? You look exhausted."
"Which means 'old,'" Cordelia said with a small grin, but
she got up and headed for the door. "And you're the one who should
be tired, after coming back from the dead."
"Me? I'm fine," Doyle lied.
"Wake me up if you need me," she said, and disappeared through
the doorway.
Doyle and Angel stood there looking at each other without saying anything,
and after a minute Wesley came into the room.
"She's gone upstairs," Wesley said, unnecessarily.
"And she looks like hell. How long has she been like this?"
Doyle shifted his weight and then sat back down in the chair Cordy had
abandoned.
Wesley and Angel exchanged a glance.
"About a month," Wesley said, finally. "It's been a
gradual decline, of course... it's only in the past month or so that
it's been this bad. Did you...?"
It was obvious what he was asking. "Yeah. Don't know if it worked."
"No. It seems that when she... got them from you, she wasn't aware
of it immediately, either. Although we weren't sure if it was because
of the generalized trauma of the situation." Wesley looked like
he was trying to be clinical, but Doyle thought he could see something
uncomfortable in the other man's stance.
"How did you find out that the visions were gonna kill her?"
Doyle asked, not sure if he really wanted to know, but feeling like
he needed to.
Angel looked at Wesley.
"Tell me," Doyle said, as Wes' blue eyes met his.
* * * * *
One moment Wesley and Cordelia were putting some books back on a shelf --
she holding the small stack, he taking them one at a time and sliding
them back where they belonged. The next minute Cordelia made the strangled
gasping sound that sometimes preceded a vision, and Wesley had just
enough time to whirl and grab onto her. The books dropped, forgotten,
onto the floor as he sank to his knees, doing his best to support her
as she went down.
She was silent, her body twitching in his arms, and then the vision
was over and she was completely limp. Completely, totally limp.
"Angel!" Wesley called out hoarsely, and Angel was there
so quickly that Wesley thought he must have heard Cordelia and already
been on the way before he'd spoken.
Angel's hand was against Cordelia's cheek. "Cordy? Come on, wake
up. Cordy?"
"I don't think she's ever lost consciousness before," Wesley
said anxiously.
"Did she hit her head?" Angel glanced up at him and then
returned his attention to Cordelia's face.
Wesley shook his own head. "No, I caught her on the way down.
Whatever this is, it's internal."
"Damn it," Angel said. "Cordy?" When there was
still no response, he gently lifted her into his arms and stood, heading
for the nearest couch.
Wesley started to follow, and then said, "I'll get a cold cloth,"
and deterred his course toward the bathroom.
He came back to find Cordelia laid out on the sofa, Angel kneeling
on the floor next to her, holding one of her hands in both of his. "Cordy?
Come on, it's over. Wake up."
Laying the dampened cloth across her forehead, Wesley smoothed her
hair back from her face and said, "Cordelia? Can you hear me?"
For a moment there was no response, and then she moaned softly and
shifted on the couch. Her eyes fluttered open and met Angel's. "Ow,"
she said.
"Yeah, no kidding." Angel's voice was light, but Wesley could
hear the concern in it. "Just take it easy."
Cordelia, ignoring sound advice as usual, struggled to sit up, so Wesley
moved to help her and sat down beside her in case she needed someone
to lean against. "Do you remember what you saw?"
Her eyes widened. "Oh my god," she said quickly, pressing
her fingers against her temples and leaning forward slightly. "How
long was I out? If it's too late -- oh I just *knew* this was going to
happen some day..."
"You were only out for a minute," Angel reassured her, one
hand on her back.
"You've gotta go, Angel... now," Cordelia choked out. "On
the west side, near that donut place Gunn likes... a vampire's going
to kill a woman and her little boy. The Powers That Be are cutting it
really close on this one -- you have to hurry. *Go.*" Her voice was
tense and strained.
Angel nodded and got to his feet. "I'm going. It'll be fine."
He exchanged a look with Wesley over her bowed head. "Wes'll stay
here with you."
"I'm fine," she protested.
"You will be," Angel assured her, and headed for the door.
"I'll be back soon."
They could hear him taking something from the weapons cabinet, and
then the soft sound as the front door closed behind him. As soon as
he was clearly gone, Cordelia turned slightly to face Wesley and curled
her legs up underneath her, resting her cheek on the back of the couch.
"You're not fine," Wesley said quietly, mindful of the splitting
headache she probably had.
She looked at him seriously and then asked, just as quietly, "If
I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Angel?"
"Cordelia, I -- "
"*Please,*" Cordelia said. Her eyes were desperate.
"I won't lie to him," Wesley said slowly. "But I'll
do my best not to tell him. I'm sorry, that's the most I can promise
you."
She nodded slightly, her gaze somewhat unfocused as she stared right
through him.
"It's all right," he said, reaching out and running his fingers
through her hair. He waited, and when she still didn't speak, he finally
asked, "What is it that you wanted to tell me?"
Cordelia spoke as if each word needed to be forced out. "I didn't...
that wasn't the first time."
Suspecting that he knew what she was speaking of, but needing the clarification,
he said, "What wasn't?"
"The first time I passed out after a vision," Cordelia answered,
confirming his fears. "The last one -- the one I had at home? A couple
of nights ago? It was the same." Now that she had begun, the words
seemed to rush from her. "They're getting worse. What if I pass
out *during* one and I don't see what the Powers are trying to show
me? Or I don't wake up in time to tell Angel who needs help?" She
glanced at him and Wesley squeezed her shoulder, trying to offer some
comfort.
"It'll be all right. We'll figure something out, don't you worry."
Minutes passed. Wesley thought about the books he had that might offer
some information -- he'd been through most of them before without much
luck, but a more careful examination might unearth something more useful --
and remembered that Lorne still had them. After the anagogic demon's
attempt to read Cordelia during the Wolfram and Hart debacle, he'd asked
Wesley if he could borrow anything that might explain the connection
between Cordelia and the Powers That Be. Wesley still wasn't sure what
it was he was looking for -- perhaps just a better understanding of the
visions -- but obviously he'd need to speak with Lorne about getting the
books back.
Cordelia was relaxed on the sofa next to him now, her breathing steady,
his hand still resting on her shoulder. Wesley was beginning to think
that she'd fallen asleep when she sighed and sat up. "I'm okay,"
she said, and the stubborn set was back to her upper lip.
"No, it's quite clear that you're not," Wesley said. "And
now that I know otherwise, you needn't continue the charade. With me,
at any rate," he added quickly. "Something needs to be done."
"I know." Cordelia's hand reached out and covered his. Her
expression was troubled. "Question is... what?"
* * * * *
"And so that was when we -- *I* -- first realized that there was something
seriously wrong," Wesley finished explaining, with an apologetic
look at Angel.
Doyle wondered how and when Angel had found out, but decided to leave
that story for another time. "So what do we do now?" he asked.
"Just wait for the next vision? What if the next one's the one
that..." kills her, he thought, but didn't let
himself say.
Wesley was pacing -- Doyle could feel waves of tension radiating off of
him. "Perhaps we could get Lorne over here to do a reading? He
might be able to tell. If it hasn't worked yet, there are a few spells
that might be modified to achieve the transfer -- but as Doyle says, time
may be of the essence."
"Good idea." Angel said, and turned to Doyle. "Lorne's
the one that figured out what was going on with Cordy in the first place.
He... reads people's destinies. Kinda like seeing the future -- possible
futures."
"He'll be able to take a look and see which one of us has got
the visions, is that what you mean?"
"Yeah, basically. I'll give him a call, see when he can get over
here." Angel went out into the lobby, leaving Doyle alone with
Wesley.
"Sorry about this," Doyle said.
"For... what, exactly?" Wesley looked confused.
"Seems like you stepped in and had to start picking up the mess
I made," Doyle explained, rubbing the back of his neck.
Wesley took a step closer, hesitantly, and then moved over to lean
on the edge of the desk. "What's happening now is *not* your responsibility.
You shouldn't blame yourself."
"Who should I blame then?" Doyle knew he sounded bitter.
That wasn't anything new. "I was the one who deserved the visions
in the first place -- not her. She *never* should have had to deal with
this."
Wesley still looked worried, but there was something else in his eyes --
a kind of steely determination that seemed to fit him, despite his bookish
appearance. "She won't for much longer, one way or another,"
he said. "If this didn't work, we'll find something that will."
"A spell?"
"Yes." Wesley gestured at a pile of books over on top of
a bookcase. There were scraps of paper sticking out of most of them,
clearly temporary bookmarks. "I've done a great deal of research,
and there are a number of spells that might do the trick. It's only
a matter of narrowing it down to the ones most likely to be successful."
Doyle nodded, the reality of the situation sinking in slowly. "I
can't believe this is happening."
Wesley looked at him, then moved over to the chair that Doyle himself
had been sitting in earlier. "It must be very overwhelming,"
he said sympathetically. "To have so much happen at once..."
"And after so much time of nothing happening," Doyle agreed.
He was struck again by how blue Wesley's eyes were. He wondered if the
glasses made them seem more intense, or if taking them off would, and
for some reason his hands itched to do it so that he could find out.
Uncertain, he cleared his throat and glanced down. "You think someone
should go check on her?"
There was a little shuffle near the door, and a slender young woman
peered around the frame, blinking owlishly behind her own glasses. "Hi
Wesley," she said, her eyes skating over Doyle like he was something
much fiercer than he actually was. "Um... Cordelia's upstairs.
Just in case you were wondering."
Doyle wondered if everyone who came into the room was going to report
the same information.
"Yes, we know. She's going to try to get some rest." Wesley
stood up. "Fred, this is Doyle."
"I kinda thought," she said, looking at him again very briefly
and then ducking her head, her long hair falling over her face. "Angel
said that you were back when he got home last night. Home to the hotel,
I mean. Since the hotel's his home. And um, mine too."
Wesley had an expression of sympathy on his face, but he didn't seem
surprised at Fred's babbling, so Doyle had to assume it was normal.
"Doyle, this is Fred -- er, Winifred Burkle."
Standing up and offering a hand to shake might send her running in
the opposite direction. Instead Doyle nodded at her and offered her
a friendly grin. "Nice to meet you. So you're helping the helpless
too?"
Fred laughed nervously. "Um... not exactly. I was sort of a...
rescue project. After the fact." She looked at Wesley hopefully
and another strand of hair fell loose from its haphazard arrangement.
"So did you try it?"
Wesley glanced at Doyle before answering. "They kissed, yes. Angel's
gone to call Lorne to ask if..."
Angel appeared behind Fred, who twitched nervously. "He says yes.
He'll be over in a couple of hours. Soon as some delivery he's waiting
on gets there."
"We could take her over there?" Doyle suggested, anxious
to do something, anything.
"I'd imagine at this point she needs the rest as much as she needs
to find out," Wesley said gently. "I hardly think an hour
or two will make much of a difference."
Doyle took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay, so what do we
do in the meantime? I mean, we shouldn't just be sitting around, right?"
Angel moved around Fred carefully, like he knew it might alarm her,
and came further into the room. "He's right," he said, more
to Wesley than anyone else. "Fill us in on the research, at least?"
Adjusting his glasses, Wesley went over and got the pile of books he'd
indicated before, bringing them over to the desk. "I've marked
the pages that are relevant," he said, opening one book in illustration.
"Of course there are some that are a bit more relevant than others --
"
"Nice and Orwellian of them," Doyle murmured, and was surprised
when Wesley shot him a small grin instead of a look of irritation.
" -- but these are the ones I've narrowed it down to," Wesley
finished. "I know it seems like a lot -- nearly a dozen still -- but
initially there were over thirty, so we've made progress."
"*You* have," Angel told Wesley, clapping him on the shoulder.
Wesley smiled and adjusted his shirt collar, looking self-conscious.
"We're a team," he said. "I can't take all the credit."
Fred was hovering behind Angel. "Wesley always does that,"
she explained to Doyle. "He sort of has this thing about taking
compliments."
It was similar enough to what Cordy had said the night before that
Doyle filed it away for future reference.
"All right," Wesley said. "Now why don't you all let
me sit down and go over this again, see if I can't eliminate some more
of the current possibilities. As Doyle says, might as well keep busy."
"That keeps *you* busy," Doyle pointed out. "What about
the rest of us?"
He felt Angel's arm on his elbow, guiding him toward the door as Fred
scuttled out into the lobby in front of them. "We get out of his
way and let him work," Angel said.
"He doesn't like to be interrupted," Fred confided in her
soft drawl, then looked alarmed and started to back up the stairs. "Um...
I'm just gonna go to my room."
"What's with her?" Doyle asked once she was gone.
"Fred? She's... a little nervous."
"You can say that again."
Angel was watching Doyle. "She has her reasons. Got sucked through
a portal into another dimension, spent like five years as a slave. She's
been back a couple of months, but... well. She's... adjusting."
Doyle snorted. "Yeah, well... not like we'd know anything about
that."
"You have *no* idea," Angel said. "So. You want me to
fill you in on what's been going on?"
Moving over to the couch, Doyle sat down. "Yeah. Tell me *everything.*"
* * * * *
Wesley sighed and put the last book on top of the taller of the two
piles to his right. He'd managed to narrow the field of potential spells
down to three -- admittedly a marked improvement -- but now that he was there,
he wasn't sure which of the remaining was the best option.
Getting up to shelve the books that had been eliminated, he ran the
three spells that were left over in his mind again. At this point he
was starting to wonder if his judgment was sound. He hadn't been getting
enough sleep, and repeatedly going over the same information again and
again was starting to take its toll, leaving him distracted and increasing
his self-doubt.
Of course, Doyle was an added distraction that he hadn't been counting
on. He'd expected to find the man, well, annoying, for lack of a better
word. From the way Doyle had been described, Wesley had been left thinking
that he'd be the sort of person that rubbed him the wrong way, and he'd
also thought that some amount of smugness was to be expected. Instead,
Doyle was earnest and helpful and essentially nothing like Wesley had
anticipated.
The last thing he'd expected was to find himself attracted to Doyle.
Slight build, sharp green eyes that seemed to see into him in ways
that were alternately hope-inducing and nearly disturbing, Doyle wasn't
the sort of man that Wesley had found himself attracted to in the past.
Nothing about him was as expected. Added up, it was resulting in Wesley
finding it more difficult to concentrate on the matter at hand than
he'd have guessed.
Clearly, coffee was the solution. He went over to pour another cup
from the pot, emptying it, but before he could take a sip he heard a
change in the timbre of the voices in the lobby.
Wesley carried his coffee to the office doorway and looked out.
Lorne was wearing a splendidly-gaudy mauve jacket and a hopeful smile.
"Here I am, ready to read the helpless. Only where's our little
peach bud?"
Angel nodded toward the second floor as Wesley joined them. "She's
still sleeping. Hang on, I'll go get her." He started up the staircase.
Doyle was watching Lorne with an expression that was difficult for
Wesley to translate, although he hadn't forgotten that Doyle had issues
with his demon heritage. Perhaps he had issues with other demons as
well? "I'm quite a bit closer to finding a spell that might work,"
Wesley said, hoping to distract the other man if, indeed, he needed
distracting.
"Yeah?" Doyle grinned at him. "Good. If you need any
help, just say the word. Not that I've got a lot of experience with
that sort of thing, but..." He turned his attention back to Lorne.
"So, you can just... look at Cordy and see if she's still got the
visions?"
"It's not so much about looking as it is about singing,"
Lorne said. "You hum me a little ditty, and with any luck I'll
be able to see whatever's there for the seeing."
Doyle looked startled. "You can read *me?*"
"I can read pretty much anyone, sweet cheeks. There've been a
few exceptions, but they aren't the kind of thing you want to talk about
in polite company." Lorne spread his hands in invitation. "You
want to sing? You go right ahead."
"Okay." Doyle cleared his throat nervously. "Uh... what
should I sing?" He shook his head. "Never mind." He immediately
launched into a tune that Wesley didn't recognize, his voice low and
his accent somewhat smoothed out around the edges. His voice was pleasing
to the ear, and his nervousness at the attention was endearing.
Wesley watched Lorne's face for some reaction, and he didn't like what
he saw.
"You can stop," Lorne interrupted, before Doyle had even
gotten through the first round of the chorus. He reached out and patted
Doyle's shoulder in something like sympathy. "You're gonna get
them back, I can see that plain as the green nose on my face."
Doyle looked as if he weren't sure how to feel about that, but then
blinked as he obviously realized the meaning behind what Lorne had just
said. "But I don't have them now? Is that what you're saying?"
"Sorry, friend."
Before they could get any further into the conversation, Angel and
Cordelia came down the stairs.
Cordelia reached the landing and stopped. "Okay, what's with the
long faces?" She blinked and rubbed one arm with her opposite hand.
"Oh. It didn't work, did it?"
"I can read you to be sure, if you want me to, doll. But no, looks
like we've got to step sideways until we find another path that leads
to the Emerald City."
Wesley watched as Doyle climbed the stairs to the landing to stand
with Cordelia and Angel. "Don't worry, Princess," Doyle said,
turning to glance at Wesley. "Wesley's gonna pick a spell and we'll
give it a shot. And if that one doesn't work, we'll try another one,
and then another, until we find one that does."
"Okay, but first I want some lunch," Cordelia said, making
the effort to rally herself that Wesley and Angel had become all to
accustomed to. She started down the few steps into the lobby, giving
Wesley an attempt at a smile. "And promise me that none of these
spells are the kind where I have to drink demon poo or anything?"
"If the spell says you've gotta drink demon... you know, then
you'll do it," Angel said, as he and Doyle came down into the lobby
too and Cordelia went over to rifle through the pile of menus they kept
under the counter. "Because we're -- "
Wesley stood frozen for what felt like forever, but was probably only
a heartbeat or two, as Angel suddenly broke off and flew around the
counter to grab onto Cordelia just in time as she spasmed in the throes
of a vision. Her scream sounded shrill and defeated as she writhed in
Angel's arms, the vampire lowering her to the floor and cradling her
carefully, making sure that she didn't hurt herself.
He could hear Doyle cursing under his breath as they both moved to
where Cordelia and Angel were, and he was aware of Lorne just behind
them. Cordelia's hands were pressed to her temples, almost clawing at
them as if she might be able to forcibly remove the visions from her
skull physically.
She shrieked once more and went limp, unconscious.
Doyle was on his knees beside Angel, and Wesley sank down to his as
well.
"Jesus," Doyle breathed. "Christ, is it always like
that?"
"More or less," Wesley answered absently, chafing Cordelia's
wrist gently. "She seems to be breathing fairly normally at least.
Cordelia?"
Reaching a trembling hand out to smooth back her hair, Doyle asked,
"What if she doesn't wake up?"
Angel glanced at Doyle. "Don't say that. She's going to wake up,
and we're going to get the visions out of her and back into you where
they belong."
Turning to look over his shoulder, Wesley asked, "Lorne, would
you get a damp cloth and find her purse? I'd imagine she's going to
need her painkillers when she wakes up." He looked at the obviously-distraught
Doyle with more reassurance than he felt. "She's going to wake
up," he said.
They continued to speak to her gently, and when Lorne returned with
the cold washcloth, Wesley lay it across her forehead.
"Cordy? Come on, wake up. If you don't wake up in time to tell
us what you saw you're going to be really pissed off at yourself."
Angel's voice sounded shaky, and Wesley wondered how exactly it had
come to pass that they all revolved around Cordelia Chase like planets
to her brilliant sun.
Finally, after nearly ten minutes, Cordelia stirred and opened her
eyes with a small whimper. "Pills?" she requested hoarsely.
No one said a word until she'd taken them.
"Guess Lorne wasn't kidding when he said the kiss thing didn't
work," she managed, looking at Doyle.
"Guess not," Doyle said, very softly. "Just take it
easy there, yeah?"
"I'm okay," Cordelia said, even as a tear trickled from the
corner of her eye and she reached up to knuckle it away. "God.
How long was I -- ?"
"Not long," Wesley answered quickly. "Do you remember
what you saw?"
"Yeah." With Angel's help, Cordelia sat up, the vampire still
supporting most of her weight. "Some guys working in the sewer,
being attacked by some kind of slime demons. What is it with demons
and slime, anyway?" Her normal tone was clearly forced, her face
pale. "Um, near Piedmont and Vine. There should be a sewer entrance
there."
"There is," Angel confirmed. Ignoring Cordelia's squeak of
protest, he got to his feet with her in his arms and carried her past
Lorne and over to the couch, setting her down there. "Lorne? You
stay with her while we take care of this?"
"Sure," Lorne said, going over to sit with Cordelia. "Can
I get you anything, pumpkin?"
"A new head?" Cordelia asked faintly, with a wry grimace.
"No, I'm okay. Just..." She waited until Angel and the others
were looking at her before finishing her sentence. "Be careful?
They looked... big. I don't know, I don't have a good feeling about
this one."
"Yeah well, the Powers That Be aren't about good feelings, are
they?" Doyle quipped, looking at Cordelia with what Wesley thought
was sympathy and guilt. "You need a hand?" he asked Angel.
"Always," Angel said, just as Gunn appeared from around the
corner.
"Vision?" the big man asked.
"Vision," Wesley said. "Slime demons in the sewer."
"Man, it's always gotta be the sewer," Gunn complained, going
over to the weapons' cabinet and taking out his axe. "I think we
should get hazard pay every time we have to get our boots all mucked
up." Wesley could see the other man looking at Cordelia surreptitiously,
but Gunn obviously had better sense than to enquire about her health
in front of her.
Doyle accepted the weapon that Angel handed him, and then Angel tossed
the crossbow to Wesley. "You guys take topside," Angel said,
heading for the basement door. "I'll meet you there."
Wesley tucked a handful of bolts into his pocket and nodded at the
front door. "You heard what the man said."
* * * * *
Doyle was grateful for the few minutes of silence in Wesley's SUV.
It'd been one thing to have the visions himself, and totally another
to see Cordy having one. The guilt was... overwhelming. Truth be told,
he was glad to get away from her, even though he suspected that he hated
himself more for giving them to her than she ever would -- and that was
probably saying a lot.
Wesley pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out.
"Over there," Gunn said, pointing to a sewer access.
The three of them went over to it. Doyle glanced around kind of nervously,
but there weren't too many people around, and the ones that were didn't
seem to have much interest in what they were up to. Gunn used a small
crowbar to pry up the sewer cover, then tucked it into one belt loop
before jumping down into the darkness.
"Age before beauty," Doyle said, offering to let Wesley go
first, and then wincing as he realized this probably wasn't the best
way to make strangers into friends.
Wesley didn't seem offended -- he just followed Gunn down into the sewers.
Muttering, "Haven't even been back a whole day and here I am,
put to work already..." Doyle went after them, dropping down onto
the damp cement floor and shaking his head as the smell became almost
tangible. The air was thick with it -- heavy and sulfurous -- and Doyle had
to start breathing through his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from
puking. "God, I'd forgotten how much I hate this."
Wesley patted his shoulder. "You'll get used to it again soon
enough, I'd imagine," he said. "Does anyone hear Angel?"
"No, but I can hear you," Angel's voice said from behind
them, making Doyle jump. "You ever think it might be a good idea
to try to be, oh, I don't know, *quiet?*"
When Wesley spoke again his voice was much softer. "I'm sorry,
I didn't realize..."
Angel moved past Doyle and gave Wesley's upper arm a quick squeeze.
"Wesley, I'm kidding. You think the guys working down here are
whispering? Besides, you're the boss."
Doyle could almost feel Wesley's tension ease as Gunn started to follow
Angel, and Wesley hesitated and then started to go after them too. "He
thinks he's a real Cary Grant," he offered, as an explanation for
Angel's behavior as he fell into step beside Wesley.
"I beg your pardon?" Wesley's eyebrows were raised in surprise.
"Funny. Like in 'Arsenic and Old Lace?'"
"Oh," Wesley relaxed again. Doyle thought it was no wonder
that the guy was so thin, if this was the way he was on a daily basis --
all wound up, all the time. Made him want to... well, do something to
help. "I thought you meant... er, something else."
"Though actually he's not far off," Doyle said thoughtfully.
"You know Insanity doesn't just run through his family, it gallops."
Wesley chuckled softly. "I'm not sure you've any idea how apropos
that is. Especially considering Drusilla."
"That's right, she's the daughter. Whoa, never gonna get used
to that as a concept." Angel's stance up ahead faltered, clear
to both of them even in the dim light, and Gunn, Doyle and Wesley all
stopped as one, waiting to see what happened.
The sound of voices -- muted and casual, occasional -- some distance in front
of them. Then, below it, a slithering sound like a huge snake. No, wetter.
Like a huge snake slithering though a vat of pudding. Yeah, there was
a nice image. Doyle inched his way forward another couple of inches,
wanting to hear more clearly, and then, without even thinking about
it, let his demon face slip out. Instantly his hearing improved by a
noticeable margin. Exerting a huge amount of self-control, he avoided
looking at Wesley or Gunn for their reactions.
"Now," Angel said, in something close to a growl, and ran
forward and turned a corner that Doyle had only dimly been aware was
there.
The rest of them followed on his heels, only to be nearly run over
by a crowd of men in yellow hard hats and orange vests running in the
opposite direction. Doyle was briefly separated from the others, and
by the time he'd gotten himself straightened out, the battle was in
full swing.
The slime demons were... well okay, slimy. They also bore a striking
resemblance to giant snakes, if giant snakes had weird vestigial arms
that didn't seem to work very well. His first thought sprang from his
lips before he could finish it. "These things poisonous?"
he shouted in Angel's general direction.
Angel leapt out of the way of a swinging tail and yelled back, "Probably!"
That was when Doyle realized that the tails had some sort of stingers
on them. Great -- just what they needed.
Wesley and Gunn were fighting a second demon -- seemed like there were
only two, so that was something in their favor, at least. He paused
for only a second before joining them, deciding that Angel was more
equipped to handle one of the things on his own than the humans were.
Heck, if the stingers were poisonous, for all he knew they might not
even affect Angel.
"You guys have a game plan?" he asked, as the creature's
mouth darted in close to Gunn, who hacked at it.
"Kill it?" Gunn suggested.
"Right. Thanks." Doyle jumped to the side and rolled, trying
to distract the thing's attention away from Wesley, who was trying to
line up a shot with the crossbow. It got in a bit closer than he'd intended
to let it, fangs flashing in the light from one of the abandoned workman's
lanterns, and he shouted hoarsely and slashed at with his sword, wishing
for a weapon with better balance.
The demon twitched and made a hissing sound, jerking its head abruptly
around to face Wesley. Doyle caught a glimpse of something sticking
out of its neck -- even as he clambered back to his feet -- and realized that
Wesley had hit his mark. Guy knew how to shoot, that was for sure.
Gunn leapt in and chopped off one of the monster's little waving arms --
it made a hissing, shrieking noise this time, and whipped its head toward
Gunn, snapping at him with sharp teeth. At the same time Gunn just about
cut its lower jaw off with one strong swing of his axe, Doyle saw the
back half of the creature snap forward, stinger aiming at Wesley, whose
attention was focused on getting off another shot with the crossbow.
Without another thought, Doyle threw himself at Wesley, grabbing onto
the other man and yanking him out of harm's way just as the stinger
came slamming down with such force that the tip of it got embedded in
the floor. By the time he glanced up to see what was happening, Angel
had joined Gunn at the demon's head, which was actually lying on the
floor and no longer connected to its body.
Doyle realized he was still holding onto Wesley's arm, and forced his
fingers to let go.
"Thank you," Wesley said stiffly, moving a step away and
releasing the tension in the crossbow's string.
Angel wiped the blood on his sword off on the demon's hide and came
over. He reached out and fingered Doyle's sleeve thoughtfully. "Close
call," he said, and it was only then that Doyle saw that the fabric
of his shirt was torn.
"Yeah, well..." Doyle wasn't sure who to look at, so he looked
for the first demon instead. It was dead, lying further down the tunnel.
"See you took care of things," he told Angel.
"Yeah. You too." Angel's eyes moved from Doyle to Wesley
and then back again, but all he said was, "Come on, let's get out
of here."
* * * * *
Wesley knew he was being unreasonable, but it was one of those situations
in which he just couldn't help himself. Angel's earlier comment -- joking
though it had been -- had distracted him, made it difficult to focus on
the job at hand with any sort of confidence. And the fact that he'd
nearly gotten himself killed -- and worse, that *Doyle,* newly back from
the dead and a man without nearly the training he himself had, had been
the one to rescue him... well, it rankled.
Not to mention the fact that it no doubt made him look a fool in Doyle's
eyes.
He drove in silence back to the Hyperion, aware that the others were
doing their best to make conversation that seemed natural even as his
own reticence made them uncomfortable. He parked the car and went in
without a word to any of them, but as soon as he saw Cordelia curled
up on the couch next to Lorne, his anger and bitterness faded. When
she saw him, she struggled to a sitting position, reaching a hand out
toward him. "You okay?"
Going over to her and taking her hand, Wesley said, "It's all
taken care of. No one was injured -- everyone's fine." He was surprised
at the strength of her grip, not to mention the look in her eyes. "What's...
Cordelia, are *you* all right?"
She nodded, and Lorne spoke for her. "A little while after you
left, she thought she remembered something else. Something about you
getting hurt?"
Angel, over near the weapons cabinet, said, "He would have, if
it wasn't for Doyle."
Wesley couldn't look at Doyle, and it was easier not to look at Angel
either. "Yes... but it all turned out well in the end."
To his relief, Doyle didn't seem interested in exploring the incident
further. The smaller man came over and sat on Cordelia's other side
as Lorne relinquished the spot, reaching to brush her hair back from
her cheek. "Yeah, everybody's fine. And next we're gonna get those
visions out of your head, and you're gonna be fine too."
Cordelia smiled. There were tension lines around her eyes and mouth,
making her look older than she was, but she'd obviously recovered somewhat
since the vision. "So what's the plan?" she asked Wesley.
"Are we going to flip a coin, or what?"
Momentarily confused, Wesley quickly realized what she was referring
to. "Not that that might not be as good a method as any, but let
me look all three spells over one last time before we settle on that
option."
Leaving Cordelia in the care of the others, Wesley went into the office
and sat down, opening up the three books again and beginning to reread
through each spell. The pressure to get this right on the first try
was... well, rather overwhelming. He'd had enough failures in his life,
and he wasn't prepared for this to be another. It wasn't until he heard
someone clear his throat that he realized there was someone else in
the room with him.
Wesley looked up and sighed. Of course it would have to be Doyle -- the
rest of them knew him well enough to let him research in peace, especially
when the situation was this grim. "Can I help you with something?"
He knew he sounded remote and formal, and he wished that he didn't.
"I was kind of hoping I could help *you,*" Doyle said. "You
know, do something? All this sittin' around and waiting is killing me."
He grimaced at his obviously-inappropriate choice of phrasing. "I
want to help."
"You've been back for less than twenty-four hours," Wesley
pointed out. "I hardly think that qualifies as any appreciable
amount of sitting around and waiting."
"Yeah, okay." Doyle shifted his weight from one foot to the
other. "Look... did I do something to piss you off? Because that'd
probably be a record even for me. It usually takes me at least a couple
of days before I start annoying people."
Wesley felt a smile slip out onto his face despite himself. The man
was so self-deprecating. "No, of course you didn't do anything.
Well, other than save me from myself, and although I'm grateful for
that, I can't say that I'm overjoyed at the fact that it was necessary."
Doyle relaxed visibly. "Okay, I get that. Just... I thought we
were getting off on a good foot there, you know? I'd hate to think I
screwed it up so fast."
Wesley looked down at the spell he'd just finished reading, and then
offered the book to Doyle slowly. The other man couldn't really help --
not at this point -- but surely there couldn't be any harm in letting him
*think* he was being useful. "See what you think of this one,"
he said.
"Yeah, okay." Doyle took the book and perched himself on
the edge of the chair he'd been sitting in earlier in the day, and Wesley
went back to reading the other spells.
Every once in a while, he felt Doyle glance over at him.
* * * * *
It'd taken more than an hour for Wesley to settle on the spell they
were going to use, and now that the potential was imminent -- *again* -- Doyle
was nervous. Okay, make that downright freaked. Not that he wouldn't
do anything to make things right for Cordy -- it was mostly the not-knowing
that caused the knot in the pit of his stomach. The knot that kept speaking
up, loudly, for a drink.
"You're sure this is the one?" Angel asked, not for the first
time.
"I'm sure," Wesley said firmly, although Doyle thought he
could tell even from the brief time of knowing the man that he was putting
on a front. "This spell is the one most likely to cause the desired
transfer. And if it doesn't work, we'll try the next one."
Doyle prayed that wouldn't be necessary. He wasn't sure he could go
through this again.
Fred was upstairs in her room -- not that that was a rarity, apparently --
and Gunn had gone home. Apparently the spell had some likelihood of
magical backlash, and Wesley had thought it best to keep the number
of people in the vicinity to a minimum.
Jesus, Doyle thought to himself. I'm even starting to sound like him.
"All right," Wesley said, handing a mortar and pestle over
to Lorne. "I believe that's everything. Are you both ready?"
"Are you kidding? I've been ready for this for two years,"
Cordelia said.
Doyle took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, I'm ready."
"Cordelia, you sit here. Doyle, here."
They sat where Wesley'd pointed, next to and facing each other, their
thighs touching. Under other circumstances, Doyle would have been tempted
to make an innuendo about their positioning, but considering the current
situation he thought it was better to keep his big mouth shut.
The spell itself was... well okay, so maybe he didn't pay a hell of
a lot of attention to it. Partly because he was nervous, and partly
because it just wasn't his thing. Simple stuff he could handle -- throw
some herbs on a fire, say a few words -- but spells of this caliber...
they just weren't him.
Doyle closed his eyes.
He knew that there was chanting, and a circle, and a paste of herbs
smeared onto both himself and Cordelia -- foreheads, wrists. More herbs
were burning -- there see, that was the part he could have handled -- and
they smelled pretty damned bad. Heavy, sickly-sweet.
The smoke made Doyle's throat burn, and he opened his eyes just in
time to see a brilliant flash of light and to feel the wind knocked
from him as if all the oxygen had left the room. Pain twisted in his
brain like a dull knife, imprecise and tearing. He couldn't breathe,
and he could feel his muscles twitching like he'd gotten some kind of
electrical shock. Cordelia's eyes were on his own, round and scared,
and he thought that maybe her hand was holding his, but he couldn't
quite feel it.
His last conscious thought was that, if he had to die, he hoped to
hell Wesley's spell had transfered the visions to him before he did.
* * * * *
Doyle's first conscious thought upon waking was that he hadn't died.
His second was that too many people spent way too much time unconscious
around here.
There were fingers on his wrist, and gentle ones smoothing through
his hair. He opened his eyes and almost jumped out of his skin at the
sight of Cordelia's face barely six inches from his own. "Jesus!"
he exclaimed, and Cordy sat up and away from him hurriedly.
"Sorry," she said, her fingers stroking his hair again soothingly.
It felt good. "Didn't mean to freak you out."
Wesley let go of his wrist almost reluctantly. "How do you feel?"
"Okay," he said automatically, and then considered it for
a minute. "Yeah. You coulda warned a guy that something like that
might happen."
"I did tell you that the outcome was unpredictable," Wesley
pointed out. "But what I meant was, do you feel different?"
Doyle sat up and patted Cordy's knee reassuringly. "Not really.
You mean after all that you're *still* not sure if it worked?"
"Well, you either have the visions in your head, or you're now
the proud owner of Cordelia's frontal lobe," Wesley said dryly.
Cordelia shot him a look of annoyance, and Doyle chuckled. His head
didn't hurt, and the niggling feeling in his gut about the ramifications
of having the visions back -- if he did -- was easily ignored. "Not that
I couldn't use some extra brain power, Princess, but I think it's gonna
be okay. I think it worked."
She grinned a little bit. "I think so too. I mean, I felt... something."
"Yeah, so did I." He didn't mention that it had been excruciating
pain.
Angel cleared his throat behind him, and Doyle turned to look at him.
"Let's be sure before we get our hopes up, okay?" There was
something in Angel's eyes that told Doyle just how worried he'd been
about Cordy, something that said it was Angel's own hopes the vampire
was worried about.
"Okay." Doyle got up and straightened his trousers, glad
that he'd started out sitting on the floor. He gestured at Lorne, feeling
the same hesitance about the demon as he had before. "So, singing
again?"
"Let's let Cordy do it," Lorne said. "See what the future
has in store for her now that the PTB aren't in charge of her brain."
"We don't *know* that," Angel said warningly.
"It's okay, Angel," Cordelia said, taking the vampire's hand.
"Stop being such a worrywart."
"I can't help it," Angel said. "Kind of in my nature."
"No, that's the brooding," Cordelia told him, then smiled
and tilted her head to one side. When Angel forced an answering smile,
she nodded and released her grip on him, then immediately launched into
the most god-awful rendition of "The Greatest Love of All"
Doyle had ever heard.
Lorne, obviously feeling the same way that Doyle did about her performance
and wanting to spare them, stopped her almost instantly. "Okay,
sweet pea, that's enough." The demon's smile was wide. "That's
all she wrote."
"I'm good?" Cordelia's own smile just about eclipsed the
room, it was so brilliant.
"You're good," Lorne confirmed, opening his arms and gathering
her into them.
Cordelia returned his hug quickly, then turned and hugged Angel. Doyle
couldn't help but notice that that embrace lasted a little bit longer
than a relieved, friendly one might otherwise have. "I can't believe
it," Cordelia said, pulling back and looking up at Angel. "It
really worked."
Wesley stifled a cough behind his fist, and Cordelia turned.
"I didn't mean *that,*" she said to Wesley, going over and
hugging him too. "Thanks. You were amazing."
"Hey, what about me?" Doyle asked, crossing his arms and
trying to look offended. "Don't *I* get any thanks?"
"For taking them back after sticking me with them for two years?"
Cordelia's eyebrow was raised. "I don't think so." But she
smiled, a little bit sadly, and moved into Doyle's arms. "Thanks,"
she said, so quietly that he didn't think even Angel would have been
able to hear it.
"It's what you brought me back for, right?" he asked, wanting
to hear that it had been more than that, that they'd missed him.
"Yeah," Cordelia said, and strangely, the way that her eyes
were shining was enough. He didn't need more.
"Perhaps we should celebrate?" Wesley offered, kind of tentatively,
like he wasn't used to his suggestions being well-received.
"That," Doyle said, twirling Cordelia around, "is the
best idea I've heard in a long time. And I'm not just sayin' that because
I've been dead."
Angel stuck his hands in his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable.
Just seeing him like that brought back memories. "Good. Yeah, you
should do that."
"*We* should," Cordy said, putting her hands on her hips
and looking at him sternly. "You are *so* not getting out of this
one."
"I'm... not really good with the whole bar scene." Angel
fidgeted.
"We're not talking about the bar scene," Cordelia told him.
"We're talking about all of us going out for a couple of drinks,
maybe some dancing... unless that's a little too much for Lorne? I mean,
considering the big shoot-em-up and all."
Lorne held his hands up. "Hey, I love a good celebration as much
as the next guy, and believe you me, I've seen enough of my own place
lately. You think we can get the Fredster to join us?"
"If she knows what's good for her," Cordelia said. "Wes,
you wanna call Gunn? 'Cause we are gonna par-tay!"
* * * * *
"She's radiant, isn't she?"
Wesley seemed to have startled Doyle out of some reverie, because the
other man blinked and then turned his head to look at him, obviously
dragging his gaze away from Cordelia with great reluctance. "Yeah,
she's... yeah. Radiant."
Cordelia and Gunn were dancing wildly, throwing themselves into the
music with a sense of rhythm and joy that Wesley found enviable. He
always felt awkward on the dance floor, despite the fact that he forced
himself to participate. Lorne was dancing with Fred, who'd felt too
self-conscious to do anything by herself but was willing to dance as
long as there was some -- literal -- hand-holding going on.
Angel was watching from the other side of the club, leaning up against
a post with a drink in one hand, his eyes as locked on Cordelia as Doyle's
had been. Every few moments someone went over and spoke to Angel, but
the vampire only shook his head, fending off attempts at conversation
and requests to dance alike.
"You think she'll be okay? I mean, sure, the visions are out of
her head, but what about lasting damage?" Doyle drained the rest
of his drink and stepped closer to the bar to set his glass down, nodding
to the bartender.
"We can look into that, of course, but I don't think it's of great
concern." Wesley looked down into his own glass, which was still
mostly full.
"Good." Doyle picked up his fresh drink, raised it to the
man behind the bar, and took a sip. "Not much of a drinker?"
Wesley shook his head slightly. "No."
"Nor much of a dancer either."
Wesley's initial reaction was to protest that he did the best he could,
but then he realized that Doyle actually hadn't seen him dance, and
was referring to that fact. "No. No, not in public. Not anymore."
Doyle grinned. "Let me guess, you cut a mean figure on the kitchen
floor."
"If I admitted to that, you'd spread it far and wide, wouldn't
you." Wesley smiled a bit in return.
"Nah. Not any further than the office." Doyle made a little
gesture at the stools behind them. "You wanna sit down?"
"All right." They settled themselves on the seats, both of
them facing the dance floor. It was a smaller, less popular club than
the ones Cordelia had chosen in the past, so although it was crowded,
they could hear each other speak without shouting at the tops of their
lungs. Wesley found himself watching Doyle more than he was watching
the others. There was something about the man that was... kinetic, somehow.
"Am I really that interesting?" Doyle snorted. "And
haven't we had this conversation before?"
Wesley forced his eyes back to Cordelia and Gunn, and took another
sip of his drink. If he didn't watch himself, his... interest in Doyle
was going to become appallingly obvious. "I suppose I'm wondering
how you're dealing with all of this."
"Haven't got much choice," Doyle pointed out.
"No, that's probably true." Wesley gave up and put his glass
down on the bar behind them -- he wasn't in a mood to drink, for whatever
reason. "You do seem to be adjusting remarkably well."
"Other than the whole being-dead-for-two-years thing, there isn't
much to adjust to." Doyle shrugged. "Well, except for the
hotel, and Fred, and Gunn, and Lorne. And you."
Wesley wondered why he always seemed to be an after-thought. Before
he could respond -- not that he knew how to respond -- Cordelia came bouncing
up to them. Her face was flushed and her hair tousled. "I need
another drink," she announced. "Someone get me one?"
Doyle turned to order something for her.
"You're having a good time," Wesley said.
"Well *duh.* You could be too, if you weren't such a fuddy-duddy.
Come on, Wes, get out there on the dance floor and shake your groove
thing."
"I was under the impression that you didn't think too highly of
my ability to shake my groove thing," Wesley said.
Cordelia snickered. "You're smart -- you could learn."
"I'm not so sure that's true."
Doyle handed Cordelia a bright blue cocktail in what looked like a
martini glass.
"Now *that's* what I call a drink," Cordelia said admiringly.
She took a sip. "Yum. You guys want to try?" Both men shook
their heads, so she said, "Your loss," and danced her way
back out onto the floor, shaking her behind in a manner that caused
everyone she passed to turn and look at her.
Wesley and Doyle watched as Cordelia danced all the way across the
room to where Angel stood, still holding up the post as if he thought
that moving would cause the ceiling to come crashing down on everyone.
She leaned her head in close to his, obviously saying something, and
then Angel laughed. Actually laughed, and it looked like... well. Wesley
didn't want to think about that too carefully, although he supposed
something would have to be done about it before it got too far out of
control.
"She looks happy," Doyle said, and Wesley thought he sounded
wistful.
"She does."
"Glad I could do this much for her, at least." Doyle finished
his drink and set his glass next to Wesley's. "So. Angel tells
me you're as good with a gun as you are with a crossbow. Some kind of
sharp-shooter, huh?"
Wesley thought back to his performance in the sewers earlier and grimaced.
"Yes, well... it's unfortunate that I'm not able to concentrate
my attention on what's happening around me at the same time, isn't it."
Doyle's face creased with what might have been concern. "Hey,
you were pretty slick down there. You saved my ass, I saved yours. Far
as I can tell, we're even."
Picking his glass up again, Wesley took a sip, considering this. "You
may be right," he conceded, with a small nod. "I suppose I...
expect better from myself."
"Nothing wrong with having high standards," Doyle agreed.
"But beatin' yourself up over a little mistake -- mistake that anybody
coulda made -- that's just a waste of time and energy. Let it go, man."
His accent was a bit thicker with a few drinks in him, and he reached
out and patted Wesley's shoulder lightly. The touch made Wesley smile.
Wesley thought it likely that Doyle was a great deal smarter than he
let on.
* * * * *
Doyle didn't have another drink that night, something that surprised
him later when he realized it. At the time everything else just seemed
so distracting... the lights, the music, watching Cordy. Talking to
Wesley, which was a hell of a lot more interesting than he'd have guessed.
More interesting than getting drunk, even.
By the time they managed to drag Cordy out of the club, she'd had a
few too many drinks herself, and was more than a bit wobbly on her legs.
Wesley insisted that he'd drive her home -- it was on his way -- and Angel
grudgingly gave in after a minute or so.
"Just make sure she drinks some water before she goes to bed,"
Angel told Wesley.
"I'm not stupid, you know," Cordy said, with a toss of her
head. "*Or* deaf."
Angel nodded placatingly. "You coming back to the hotel?"
he asked Doyle, as Fred and Lorne got into his car, and Cordy climbed
into the front seat of the SUV with a steadying hand from Wesley.
Doyle hesitated, some part of him feeling a need to make sure Cordy
got home safe.
"If you wanted to come with along with us, you could sleep on
my sofa again," Wesley offered, looking like he expected his kindness
to be thrown back in his face. "I daresay it's not any less comfortable
than the beds at the Hyperion."
"Thanks. That'd be great." He shook his head at Angel. "I'm
going with Wesley. See you in the morning?"
When they got to Cordy's apartment building -- and boy was *that* a blast
from the past, not that he should have expected it to have changed much
in a couple of years -- Wesley was nice enough to sit in the car and let
Doyle walk her in. Two steps away from the front door, Cordy stopped
and started fumbling in her purse, presumably looking for her keys.
"Um, Princess... won't Dennis let us in?"
"No," she said stubbornly, moving closer to the door, still
looking into her purse. "We have an agreement. He doesn't let me
in unless it's, like, an *emergency.* Otherwise, what if someone was
trying to hold me hostage or something?"
Doyle wasn't sure he could follow this train of thought, but he figured
it was easier to agree with her. "You want me to look?"
"I've *got* it." Cordelia's voice was sharp with irritation.
She rummaged around some more and then her purse half-slipped from her
grasp, most of its contents spilling onto the brick with a clatter.
"Shit," she muttered, crouching down.
He hunkered down next to her to help. "Maybe you should consider
this an emergency," he said jokingly.
"Well for me it would be," Cordelia said, putting her apparently-found
keys to one side and then starting to shove things back into her bag.
"Just because for you it's like a daily occurrence..."
"Ouch," Doyle said, only partially faking a wounded tone.
He would have said more, except his hands had just closed around a half-dozen
pill bottles. "Jesus," he said.
Cordelia reached to grab them from him, but he pulled his hands back,
turning the bottles so that he could read the labels in the pale yellow
glow of the overhead lamp.
"Quite a collection here," he managed, after his brain had
taken in the fact that they were all prescription medication, and some
names that sounded serious.
"Yeah, well... you *saw* me take them before."
Still. "When you said 'painkillers' I thought you meant Tylenol,
not this stuff. This is heavy-duty stuff. Addictive."
She did take them from him then, putting them back into her purse and
standing up. "Well excuse me. Addiction didn't seem like a big
concern when I was more worried about being *dead.*"
There it was. Doyle had known that there had to be anger in there,
underneath the fear and everything else she'd been going through. Only
fair that it was directed at him. "You don't need them now,"
he pointed out.
Cordelia snapped. "Fine," she said, throwing her pocketbook
down onto the bricks with a violent motion. One of the pill bottles
jumped out and skittered away into the mulch on the side of the walkway.
"Just take them. This is all your fault anyway."
Doyle stood up slowly, letting her do whatever she needed to do. He
deserved worse than having to take the visions back, and if it made
her feel better, he'd take it. "You've got every right to be mad
at me, Cordy. What happened, it was a terrible thing for you to have
to go through."
"You have *no idea!*" Her voice rose, shrill in her fury.
"Do you have any idea what it was *like*? What it was like to know
that you gave them to me, to wonder what I'd done that was so bad that
I needed punishing?"
Before Doyle could respond, he heard Wesley's voice behind him, calm
and reasonable. "That's enough."
Cordy turned her anger on him. "You stay out of it. I don't -- "
"*Enough,* Cordelia." Wesley brushed past Doyle and picked
up the keys from the walkway, then slid them into the lock and opened
the door. "That's enough," he repeated. "Go inside, drink
a glass of water, and go to bed."
She looked uncertain now, and young. "I... "
"It's okay," Doyle told her. "You're allowed. But Wesley's
right, drink some water or you're gonna have a head on you the size
of the city in the morning." Without waiting for an apology that
he was afraid might not come, he turned and walked back down to the
car.
In a couple of minutes Wesley joined him, getting in and starting up
the SUV. "She's very sorry."
"Yeah. So am I."
"I'd imagine she'll be sorrier in the morning when she actually
realizes what she's done," Wesley said. "She's been under
a great deal of strain for some time. That, coupled with the alcohol,
was a bit more than she could handle, I'm afraid."
"She doesn't owe me any apologies or explanations," Doyle
said bleakly, looking out the window.
"Oh, she most certainly does." Wesley sounded determined.
"And I'm sure once she sobers up, you'll get them."
Doyle shrugged. "You think she's gonna be okay? Alone, I mean?"
"She'll be fine. She's not *that* drunk, and Dennis would phone
if anything serious were to happen. But it won't." Doyle could
feel Wesley looking at him. "What about you? Are you going to be
all right?"
"Me?" Doyle had no idea how to answer that question. "Yeah,
sure," he said finally. "Can't say I'm looking forward to
dealing with the whole vision thing again, but hey... it beats being
dead."
"Yes, I'd think that it would." Wesley glanced over at him
again, started to say something, and then cut himself off with a shake
of his head. "I could always take you back to the hotel if you'd
prefer," he offered after another minute.
"Doesn't matter to me where I sleep," Doyle said, and then
realized this might be Wesley's nice way of saying *he'd* rather not
have Doyle cutting in on his space. "Unless you'd, you know, rather
have your privacy," he finished lamely.
"No, no, it's not that at all." Wesley actually reached out
and patted Doyle's shoulder. "I didn't mean to imply that. I just
thought that, well, perhaps you'd be more comfortable under Angel's
roof."
"I like your couch," Doyle said, then admitted, "Besides,
Angel's... different."
"Really? In what way?"
Doyle took a long moment to try to put it into words. "I dunno.
Less tortured -- not that that's a bad thing."
Wesley nodded. "What else?"
"I guess I thought maybe he'd be... happier to have me back."
Doyle leaned back in his seat a little bit more, feeling like an idiot.
"I mean, don't get me wrong... it's not like I'd picture him throwing
me some big bash with lots of booze and dancin' girls."
"He's been worried about Cordelia -- we all have. Perhaps now that
he knows she's all right, he'll be able to concentrate on other things."
Doyle rubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, I sound like a teenaged
girl complainin' about her boyfriend not paying her enough attention,
don't I? I'm not usually like this, I swear."
Wesley patted his shoulder again, more lingeringly this time, but his
tone was light when he said, "Don't worry. I promise not to judge
you based on this conversation."
"Yeah, save the judging for other things, like how I get after
I have the first -- next -- vision." He wasn't looking forward to that.
"All right." Wesley sounded amused. "I'll make note
of that."
Wesley's apartment still looked nice to Doyle -- way nicer than his own
ever had, even if he suspected that it had more to do with Wesley's
stuff than the apartment itself. Wes' things were... nice. Not classy
exactly, more... intellectual. Books and papers and old things that
looked like antiques instead of just junk. It was cluttered, but not
dirty. Like Wesley knew where everything was, despite the fact that
it didn't look like there was any sense to the disorder.
"Tea?" Wesley asked, locking the door behind himself and
tossing his coat onto the nearest chair.
"Sounds great."
Doyle followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the wall as Wes
spooned tea and poured water. It amused him to no end that Wes had a
real tea pot and loose tea, but used mugs instead of tea cups. There
was something about the guy that fascinated him -- kind of reminded him
of how he'd felt about Angel, back before he'd died, but on a more...
equal level, maybe. The Angel thing'd been some kind of hero worship.
This was more like a partnery thing.
"I left the rest of the clothes Cordy bought me back at the hotel,"
he remembered.
Wesley looked over at him. "You can borrow some of my things in
the morning if you like."
"Thanks." Doyle glanced down at himself and then at Wesley,
noting -- and not for the first time -- their height differences, but he appreciated
the offer so he didn't say anything. He took the mug of tea that Wesley
held out to him. "Thanks for everything," he said, meaning
it.
"It's no trouble," Wesley said, moving past him and into
the living room, looking at the sofa. "We should open that up,
you'll sleep better on a proper bed." He took a sip of his tea,
then set it down on the end table and retrieved the sheets that hadn't
been used the night before.
"I've slept on worse places than a couch," Doyle protested
mildly, but he put his own tea down and moved to help Wesley, gathering
up the blankets and pillow and putting them on the floor so that they
could open up the bed. "So. Guess Cordy's been harboring some resentment."
Wesley glanced at him as he piled the cushions to one side. "You
can hardly blame her. Not," he added quickly, "that you should
feel responsible for transferring the visions to her, as you clearly
had no idea that was going to happen. But it's been a difficult time
for her, and she's kept herself together throughout. It shouldn't come
as any surprise that she'd need to let some of it out, at some point."
He pulled the metal frame and folded mattress out, setting the legs
down onto the floor.
Doyle nodded and gestured at Wesley to give him one side of the sheet.
"Yeah, guess I was a convenient target in more ways than one."
"I suppose so." Wesley finished tucking the fitted sheet
down on his side and moved to spread out the flat sheet. He stopped,
stood up straighter, and looked at Doyle steadily. "She doesn't
hate you. You know that?"
Uncomfortable with the close scrutiny, Doyle turned and picked up the
pillow, tossing it to the head of the bed. "Sure."
"That would be the kind of 'sure' that actually means 'no,' wouldn't
it."
"Maybe?" Doyle grinned ruefully. "Boy, you really get
to see me at my best. Bet if it weren't for the vision thing you'd be
regrettin' bringing me back."
Wesley finished tucking the sheet and blankets in at the bottom of
the bed and blinked thoughtfully. "No, actually I can't say I would."
Doyle wasn't sure if he was flattered or embarrassed -- okay, maybe a
little of both -- so he picked up his tea again and sat down on the edge
of the bed.
"You must be exhausted," Wesley said, as if he'd only just
realized it and was ashamed of himself. "I'll go and let you get
some sleep."
Before Doyle could protest, Wes' bedroom door was closing with a soft
*click.*
Great. Angel seemed to be avoiding him, Cordy was pissed off at him,
and now Wesley was obviously annoyed by something he'd said. Or maybe,
Doyle thought, by something he *hadn't* said.
Wow, it sure was good to be back.
Continued in Part 2